


Legacy

by Small_Hobbit



Series: Legacy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:13:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One incident and the lives of several people are turned upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Isabel

**Author's Note:**

> Very many thanks to ImpishTubist for beta reading and masses of encouragement.
> 
> Although a child features prominently in this story, it is not a fluffy kid!fic.

The little girl held tightly to the man's hand as they made their way through the crush of people at the railway station. She was wearing a teddy bear backpack and one of the yellow rabbit bobbles that were tied into her hair had slipped further down than the other one, giving her a slightly unbalanced look. This was accentuated by the fact that she was clearly wearing odd socks, although her clothing looked new rather than hand me downs. The man was walking quickly and once or twice she had to trot to keep up with him, but she didn't complain, and seemed determined that he shouldn't have to slow down on her account.

They entered the tube station and she stood close behind him as they descended the escalator, grabbing his hand again as they headed for the platform. Once on the tube he ensured that she sat in the one vacant seat, whilst he stood in front of her, placing the pale pink holdall he had been carrying between their feet. She looked up at him and he gave her a small smile, before returning to his thoughts. The man himself was tall, dark-haired, and although taking care of the child, clearly not her parent.

They alighted at Baker Street station and made their way to ground level, the man lifting the girl off the escalator as they reached the top. Again he held her hand and set off at a brisk pace for his destination. He unlocked the door and they walked up one final flight of stairs.

“Sherlock, we’re here,” he called out as they came into the flat.

“Stanley,” Sherlock replied. “Hello Isabel. How are you?”

“Hungry.”

“I thought you might be. How does baked beans on toast sound?”

“With cheese?”

“With cheese.”

The little girl nodded and Sherlock limped into the kitchen to prepare the food.

“Do you want anything?” he asked Stanley.

“Not at the moment. Wouldn’t mind some coffee though.”

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

The atmosphere was thick with unasked questions, but conscious of Isabel’s presence they said nothing to each other. Neither Sherlock nor Stanley were given to small talk, so they restricted themselves to making sure Isabel had everything she needed. When she had finished her baked beans Sherlock asked her if she’d like some ice cream, which she happily accepted.

“I didn’t know we had any ice cream,” Stanley said.

“We didn’t. When I told Mrs Hudson this morning she said she’d get some shopping in so that I could continue to rest my leg. I rather suspect that it was also because she didn’t trust me to buy the right sort of things.”

“Very probably.” Stanley gave a genuine smile for the first time that day. “I’ll go and unpack Isabel’s bag because she’ll need to go to bed very soon.”

“I haven’t got to have a bath, have I?” Isabel sounded horrified.

“No, you can just wash your face and hands and make sure you clean your teeth.”

Once she was in bed Stanley and Sherlock went up to say goodnight.

“Will you read me a story?” Isabel asked.

Sherlock looked at Stanley. “Were there any books in her bag?”

Stanley shook his head.

“How about I tell you a story tonight?” Sherlock said. “And then tomorrow we can go to the bookshop and you can choose some books.”

Isabel nodded, so Sherlock began: “Once upon a time there was a man who had come home after fighting in a war. At first he was lonely because he was living all by himself, but then he met an old friend who introduced him to a rather strange man, who did some odd things, but who was also lonely. The two of them set up house together and started to have adventures.”

He looked at Isabel, who was already asleep, exhausted from the day.

“And I will tell you some of those adventures another time.”

Sherlock left the room quietly and went back down to join Stanley.

“What have you got to tell me?” he asked before he had sat down.

“Nothing that you don’t already know.”

“How was Lestrade?”

“Bearing up, all things considered. He sent me a text to say he’s booked into a B&Bnear the hospital. I’ve told him to phone either of us if he wants to talk.”

“I should have gone.”

“We discussed that. You were in no condition to make the journey.”

“I’d have managed somehow.”

“And then we’d have had you to look after as well as everything else. I’m not discussing this any further; I’m going to bed.”

Stanley stood up and Sherlock put out a hand.

“I’m sorry,” Stanley paused. “It’s been one hell of a day and I need to get some rest.”

“I understand.” Sherlock looked undecided as to whether to say anything else.

“Tell you what, could you phone Greg? Someone ought to speak to him, so he knows he’s not been forgotten, and I’m dead beat.”

“I’ll say the wrong thing to him, too.”

“No, he knows you well enough not to take offence. Join me when you’ve finished.”

Much later, Sherlock was lying in bed, unable to sleep. He was tempted to curl up against Stanley, but even though asleep his lover seemed tense and Sherlock knew that in such situations unexpected physical contact would cause Stanley to leap out of bed.  He had spoken to Lestrade and consciously made the effort to let him talk without correctly any erroneous deductions. There would be time enough for that in the coming weeks. Sherlock thought he could hear crying and realised it must be coming from upstairs. He got up quietly, so as not to disturb Stanley, and went up to see the little girl.

“Isabel, what’s wrong?”

“When can I go home?”

Sherlock had spent enough time when he was abroad wondering whether he would ever make it home and knowing the sheer misery of thinking it might never happen to know not to say that she would never go home. Yet he wasn’t going to give the child false hopes.

“We’re working on it,” he said. “And in the meantime you’re going to stay with me and Uncle Stanley and we’ll take care of you.”

***

The next morning Stanley turned to Sherlock. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, but not just yet,” Sherlock replied indicating the footsteps coming down the stairs.

Stanley led Isabel into the kitchen and looked to see which breakfast cereal Mrs Hudson had bought. He took out a packet of rice crispies, momentarily disappointed that there were no coco pops; clearly Mrs Hudson didn’t approve of chocolate at breakfast. He poured two bowls of cereal and ate with the little girl.

While they were eating Sherlock came into the kitchen Isabel looked at his hand, noticed the angry scarring and the way two of the fingers seemed permanently bent and asked him what he had done to it.

“It was an .. an accident.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes. Stanley, the first files are coming through now.”

Stanley stood up to go and look, but Sherlock added, “We can’t both look at them. Why don’t you take Isabel to the park? You can feed the ducks or something.”

Stanley glared at Sherlock, but knew it would be pointless arguing. They couldn’t both work with Isabel in the flat and she would probably enjoy going out. Stanley told her to get ready and waited while she fetched her brush and hair bobbles. He did his best to brush her hair and put the bobbles in, but in the process the second one broke. Isabel burst into tears.

“Have you got another bobble?” Stanley asked, grabbing a tissue and passing it to her.

“Yes, but it’s got ducks on.”

“Won’t that do?”

“No, they’ve got to be the same.” The wails intensified.

Stanley looked across at Sherlock, who was staring at his computer screen. He swallowed hard.

“It’s okay, I’ve knotted it, so it will do for now. And Uncle Sherlock can sort out a replacement for you.”

Isabel calmed down and they set off for the park, Stanley striding along with Isabel holding firmly to his hand and trotting along by his side. He was relieved that she seemed alright, but only too conscious how important it was that they keep everything normal for her. They visited the play area and then, in attempt to keep her entertained, he hired a boat and rowed them round the boating lake. Finally, they walked back to Baker Street, where Stanley hoped Sherlock had done something about lunch. Sherlock hadn’t moved, so Stanley made sandwiches.

They were partway through lunch when Isabel said “Will Daddy phone me today?”

Stanley and Sherlock exchanged glances, but were saved from having to answer by a knock on the door. Molly came in and saw the strained expression on the two men’s faces, before seeing Isabel.

“Ah,” Molly said. “You must be the reason Sherlock sent me a text saying ‘I need yellow rabbit hair thingies’. I’m Molly.”

“I’m Isabel.”

“Hello Isabel. Sherlock also thought I might be able to take you somewhere fun this afternoon. Would you like to come with me?”

Isabel looked critically at Molly’s pink fluffy jumper which had ribbons sewn into it.

“I don’t want to go anywhere pink and girly.”

“I was thinking of the Science Museum. They’ve got a life size model of a rocket there which people can walk through. Do you think you’d like that?”

Isabel stuffed the rest of her sandwich in her mouth and jumped off the chair.

“And if we look in the shop afterwards,” Molly continued, “we might be able to find you some new hair bobbles. If not I know somewhere else that is bound to have some.”

Once Molly and Isabel had left Stanley turned to Sherlock. “Right. What can you tell me?”

Sherlock had returned to his computer and was apparently searching for something.

“Speak to me!”

Sherlock’s shoulders twitched, but he made no other indication that he had heard anything. Then his hand slipped on the keys and he swore as the object on the screen rotated in a way he hadn’t wanted.

“If you did your physiotherapy exercises this wouldn’t be as much of a problem.”

“If I wanted a medical opinion I would go to the hospital. I have nothing to tell you at the moment so why don’t you leave me in peace.”

Stanley picked up one of the mugs from the kitchen table and threw it into the sink where it smashed. He ignored the breakage and stormed out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.

Stanley was halfway down the stairs when Mrs Hudson's door opened and she looked out, apparently drawn by the noise from 221b.

“Come and have a cup of tea with me, Stanley.”

“I’m not in the mood, Mrs Hudson.”

“I know, dear, which is why you’re going to have a cup of tea with me. I assume you’ve argued with Sherlock.”

“He cuts me out of everything and won’t tell me anything.”

“That’s his way of coping. Until he has things straight in his own mind he can’t share it with you.”

“And he’s treating me like a glorified nanny.”

“To be fair, at the moment, that’s probably the most important job there is. That poor little girl. How much does she know?”

“As yet, nothing. Fortunately, for the last year she’s been used to suddenly having to go with someone else for a couple of days.”

“Not ideal for a child of that age.”

“No, but at least it meant she came with me yesterday. The trouble is that even if she couldn’t speak to her mother every day her father would always call.”

“How is John?”

“Greg sent a text earlier to say he was still unconscious, but that there were some positive signs. Which is good, but it does make it unlikely that he will have recovered sufficiently to phone. At which point someone is going to have to say something.”

“You know Sherlock won’t.”

“Yes, which means ..” Stanley looked as if he felt sick.

***

Greg Lestrade sat on the hospital chair and looked at the unconscious patient in front of him. He couldn’t get it out of his head that it was all his fault. Why had he phoned? It was all very well that Stanley had told him he shouldn’t blame himself, that there was no way he would have known what was happening. It was his phone call that could leave Isabel an orphan. Which led to the unenviable conclusion: he was the one who should break the news to her.

He stood up and found the nurse in charge. She confirmed that they were not expecting any change in the patient’s condition and if there was they would contact him at once.

He sent a quick text to both Sherlock and Stanley and got in his car.

***

Stanley walked back into 221B.

“Greg’s on his way,” he said.

“Hmm.”

“He says he’ll tell Isabel.”

“Yes.”

“He shouldn’t have to.”

“Somebody has to. Surely you don’t want to do it?”

“Of course not. But Greg will do it because he feels guilty. And it wasn’t his fault.”

Despite the promise he had made to Mrs Hudson Stanley was starting to shout.

“No,” Sherlock was firm. “Greg’s doing it because he can’t repair the damage he’s caused, so he’s doing the only positive thing he can and deflecting Isabel’s anger from us to himself.”

“But it wasn’t his fault. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Stanley, you were a policeman. You’ve dealt with suicides on the underground where there was nothing the tube driver can do. Doesn’t make it any easier for the driver.”

“True. But what a mess.”

“There we can agree. And you need to take a step back and look at it logically too.”

“Fuck you, Sherlock. We have a little girl staying with us who has lost her mother and possibly her father and you tell me to take a step back. We can’t all be as cold-hearted as you.”

“Maybe not. But Greg’s not the only one blaming himself for yesterday.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“You’re blaming yourself for not realising there was a second mole.”

“And you knew of course.”

“Do you think if I had known that I wouldn’t have done something?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Except instead of beating myself up I’ve been trawling back, looking for things we must have missed and crucially seeing areas where Markham’s men were sufficiently involved that no-one checked what had been done.”

“Whilst I’ve been playing on the swings with Isabel.”

“At the moment that’s of equal importance.”Stanley looked surprised.  He hadn't expected Sherlock to even consider the child's needs.

“That’s what Mrs Hudson said.”

“She’s a wise woman.”

Molly and Isabel came back to the flat and shortly afterwards Greg arrived. Stanley let him in and indicated that the little girl was showing Sherlock her purchases. Greg went over to her and knelt down in front of her.

“Isabel,” he began “I’m so sorry.”

He stopped and then the tears started coursing down his cheeks. The words he had spent half the journey rehearsing in his mind went out of his head.

Molly knelt down beside him.

“What Uncle Greg is trying to tell you is that there’s been a very bad accident. Daddy has been very badly hurt and is in hospital. And Mummy was so badly hurt that she died.”

There was a pause while Isabel processed the information. Then she turned and flung herself at Stanley’s legs. He bent down and picked her up and carried her to the settee.

“I’ll leave now,” Greg said.

“Can I have a word first?” Sherlock replied, practically dragging him into the kitchen.

“Let me go! I couldn’t even do that properly. I need to go.”

“And drown your sorrows, I suppose.”

“So what if I do?”

“Lestrade, we need you.”

“No you don’t.”

“At the moment you’re one of the very few we can trust. And for that reason, if for no other, I will physically prevent you from leaving.”

Sherlock planted himself in the doorway and Greg reluctantly sat on one of the kitchen chairs.

“Good.”

Sherlock waited until he saw Greg’s shoulder slump before returning to the living room.

Stanley was holding Isabel tightly to his chest. When Sherlock came back he threw him a panicked look, but Sherlock merely nodded. After a while Isabel started to wriggle so Stanley loosened his hold. She made no attempt to move away from him and remained sat on his lap.

“What will happen to me?” she asked.

“We shall see how things go,” Sherlock replied. “But I am your guardian so it’s my job to take care of you now.”

Stanley looked surprised. Although he had known that Sherlock looked after Isabel on occasions, and indeed in the last six months, since moving in with Sherlock, he had been helping too, he had imagined it was in the role of pseudo godparent.

“What about Uncle Greg? Daddy said he would always look after me.”

“And so he will. You will live with me and Uncle Stanley; and Uncle Greg will be here to help too.”

There had been an almost inaudible sob from the kitchen at Isabel’s question about Uncle Greg, which became rather louder with Sherlock’s reply.

“And Auntie Molly?”

“And Auntie Molly and Mrs Hudson. So there’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about.”

They all sat silently for a while as Isabel processed this information, holding onto Stanley’s jumper for reassurance. Finally Molly moved.

“Would you like some tea, Isabel?” she said.

Isabel nodded and Molly went into the kitchen to see what was available.

“How about fish fingers?” she asked.

“Yes please.” There was a pause. “Is it just for me?”

“I think we should all have tea together,” Molly said looking around at the others. She sensed Sherlock was about to object and glared at him. “Fish fingers, mashed potatoes and baked beans. And Uncle Greg is already preparing the potatoes.”

She passed the bag over to Greg who mutely took it, found a knife and began peeling them. Once tea was ready they sat round the kitchen table. No-one was hungry, but they all made the effort to eat, aware of how important it was to maintain an air of normality for Isabel’s benefit. Molly noted that having finished Greg and Stanley looked slightly better and she wondered how long it had been since either of them had eaten.

Having eaten, Isabel went to watch television whilst Molly said her farewells and promised to return whenever they needed her. Not long after that Mrs Hudson arrived.

“I thought you’d probably be too old for ducks in your bath,” she said to Isabel, “but I saw these when I was out shopping and wondered if you would like them anyway.”

She presented the girl with two ducks, one pink and one striped. Stanley turned a horrified expression on Sherlock, which the other man returned. Neither had considered that Isabel would need a bath.

Mrs Hudson continued. “You’re probably big enough to bath yourself. But would you like me to run it for you?” She watched as Isabel looked at the two men, who in turn looked at Mrs Hudson. She went into the bathroom. “Probably easiest if I do it tonight.”

Once Isabel was in her pyjamas she found the book that had been bought at the Science Museum.

“Auntie Molly said you would like to read this to me, Uncle Sherlock, for my bedtime story tonight,” she said.

Sherlock took _Bernie the Dinosaur Goes into Space_ and indicated to Stanley to join them. Once Sherlock had read the story and Isabel had settled they went back downstairs. There they found Greg fast asleep on the settee, so Stanley found a blanket and covered him, before joining Sherlock in their bedroom.

“I think it’s time for you to tell me exactly what’s happening,” he said.


	2. Stanley Hopkins

Stanley entered the drab grey building, one of a number owned by the security forces, swiped his access card, and took the lift to the eleventh floor. He exited the lift, walked down the corridor, and knocked on the door. It was opened and he entered.

“Good morning, Hopkins,” a bulky grey-haired man said.

“Good morning, sir.”

The five other men and one woman in the room acknowledged his arrival.

“Could you summarise the events of last weekend, please.”

“Certainly, sir. There was reason to believe there was a significant threat to Mary Watson from a rogue element. Accordingly it had been arranged for Mary, her husband, and their child to be moved from their current location overnight which would give sufficient time for the individual to be flushed out. To prevent any details being intercepted, the Watsons had been informed by coded message that they would be picked up, but they had no further information.”

There were murmurs of assent to the arrangements.

“Greg Lestrade was picking them up.”

“Lestrade?”

“Detective Inspector from the Met. An old friend of John Watson, vetted and clear. I had recommended that it be someone from outside the department. Lestrade phoned Watson to let him know he was ten minutes away. Watson said what sounded like ‘Shit! Then who the hell is that?’ before the phone went dead. By the time Lestrade arrived the car in front of the house had blown up, killing the driver; Mary Watson, who was in the passenger seat, and leaving John Watson seriously injured.”

“What about the child?”

“Isabel went to a Saturday club at the local sports centre, so wasn’t in the house at the time. Lestrade’s view is that his phone call alerted Watson to the fact that the car that had already arrived had not been sent from here and that he ran out to warn his wife, getting caught in the blast as he did so.”

“No possibility this was a suicide bomber?”

“No, preliminary reports show that the bomb was detonated remotely. It seems likely that Mary Watson had known the driver and the bomber saw the opportunity to remove two people at once. As soon as Lestrade arrived at the house and saw what had happened he phoned me and I contacted the necessary authorities.”

“Quite.”

Stanley’s boss then took over, to lead the discussion on what the next steps were. It was clear that the events had rattled those present in the room, not so much the deaths themselves, but the implication that there were still people involved within the organisation who were loyal to the South American cartel. The people present were department heads and in addition to interdepartmental arguing there was obvious suspicion of each other. He was relieved when he was told that his presence was no longer needed.

Stanley went to his own office and slammed the door. He understood the need to root out those who were working for foreign powers, but the people who he’d just spoken to didn’t seem to have any concern for what had happened to John Watson, or any sympathy for the Watsons’ child. He wondered again why he was in this particular job. As a young inspector with the police he’d been thrilled to be seconded to the security services. He’d not had any illusions of being James Bond, but initially he had been caught up in the excitement of apparent cloak and dagger operations. It had been very different from the majority of police work.

He’d met Sherlock when he was investigating the first leak in what would turn out to be the extremely murky trail that had so recently led to Mary Watson’s death. At first he had been suspicious of Sherlock, who had failed to conform to the accepted ways of the department he was investigating. But gradually he became aware that those that were implicated in the leak were those who conformed the most, who stood out because they never did anything out of the ordinary. He had started meeting Sherlock outside the office, so that they could converse without being overheard and gradually their conversations had progressed from work matters to sharing something of their other lives. Not that either man was given to much openness, but in a strange way their reticence brought them closer together. So that their first kiss seemed both completely natural and totally unexpected. And when Sherlock had said that they could save a lot of time by living in the same flat Stanley had moved in the following day.

His secondment was due to finish in a couple of months’ time. He knew he could request an extension, but had no wish to, preferring to return to a job where individuals mattered and at least at times they could be considered as people and not just for what they represented. And despite his initial hopes of a job with a little glamour he’d spent all his time within the grey concrete buildings, since he was not a field operative. He wanted to have a job where at least at times there would be a change of surroundings.

He picked up his phone, intending to see if there had been any progress with regards to finding details of two individuals that Sherlock had flagged up as possibly involved in the events of the weekend. He couldn’t help but smile when he saw the latest screen saver. Sherlock must have changed it just before he left for work, because whereas before there had been an innocuous river it was now a picture of Isabel and himself, taken on their trip to the zoo the previous day.

Which took his mind back to what had happened after Greg had phoned him. He had made the necessary calls, all the time conscious of Sherlock talking in the background, Greg having presumably rung him immediately after speaking to Stanley. Then he was aware of Sherlock cursing as he tried to tie his shoelaces, his damaged fingers restricting his movements, in what was uncharacteristic haste. He had turned to face Sherlock.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to get Isabel.”

“Greg can bring her down if that’s what you want.”

“No, he’s got too much to deal with already. I need to go.”

“If it’s that important, I’ll go. I can get the train up and we can come back with Greg.” Stanley had seen that Sherlock was wavering in his determination and delivered the final blow. “She’ll have a bag. Could you manage to carry both it and pick her up if necessary?”

Sherlock had been forced to admit defeat. Subsequently Stanley was glad of that, because it had meant that Greg had been able to stay up for the extra day, only returning once it was apparent that John was not going to make a quick recovery. Had Sherlock gone, Greg would have insisted on driving him back and then in all probability driven back the same day. As it was Stanley had brought Isabel home (for that’s what Baker Street now was) by train, a journey that would certainly have been too taxing for Sherlock.

None of which had any importance for the powers-that-be, so Stanley returned to following up the scant leads that they had.

***

The question of Mary Watson’s funeral came up that afternoon. Stanley realised he hadn’t even considered the matter until he received an email containing the details. It seemed that in the absence of any relatives someone from HR had been given the task of organising it. The email provided the time, date and location, with a request for confirmation from those planning to attend. A brief note at the bottom stated that MW’s husband was not expected to be present. Stanley read the email through twice, hoping that he had missed the reference to Isabel, but there was nothing there.

He glanced at his watch and realised that if he hurried he would be just in time to join Sherlock in picking Isabel up from school. (Mycroft had apparently pulled some strings and arranged a place for her at a smart private school. It wasn’t what Stanley would have chosen, but it had provision for last minute care after school hours and was close to Baker Street. And with an uncertain future it had seemed a reasonable option.) Accordingly, he locked his office and headed for the lift.

***

Sherlock and Stanley were unable to discuss the funeral until later in the evening, once Isabel was in bed. It had been Stanley’s turn to read the bedtime story, chosen from one of the books they’d bought at the zoo, and when he rejoined Sherlock he found him responding to the email.

“I’ve said I’m going and sent them a list of suitable pieces of music. I doubt they’ll choose any of them, but it’s possible someone will take some notice. I’m assuming you won’t be coming.”

“I didn’t know her very well; I’ll come if you want me too. But the more immediate question is what about Isabel?”

“Whatever you consider the purpose of a funeral to be, this is not going to be suitable for a seven-year-old.”

“This is the child’s mother. Why is no-one considering her?”

“Stanley, sit down and keep your voice down.”

Stanley glared at Sherlock, “Don’t tell me what to do!”

“If you shout you’ll wake her up.”

Stanley sat down. He shut his eyes and took some deep breaths; the last thing he wanted was his anger to disturb the little girl he was becoming fonder of by the day.

He heard Sherlock say, “Great, so what does _he_ want? Oh, oh, that’s interesting.”

Sherlock nudged Stanley’s foot to get his attention and showed him the email that had just come in from Mycroft:

_I am aware that Isabel will need some way to remember her mother. It would be completely inappropriate for her to attend the funeral, so may I suggest you hold a simple ceremony in the small courtyard at the back of my house. (Pictures attached). It would, I think, be apposite for this to be on the same day as the funeral. In addition she may like to plant a small tree in her mother’s memory. I have attached a list of suitable plants that can be purchased from a reputable local grower and which, if bought in the morning, would be delivered by lunch time. You will see from the photographs that there is a spot that would be ideal._

_It would be better, too, if you did not attend the funeral either, Sherlock, but there I feel my advice will be once more ignored._

“What do you think?” Sherlock asked.

“I feel as if I’m being manoeuvred, but it makes sense. Would Isabel be able to visit the tree when she wanted, or would we have to make an appointment?”

“If Mycroft has suggested this, then he will have made sure there are suitable arrangements in place.”

“It’s going to be strange though, just Isabel and myself. Do you think Mrs Hudson would agree to come?”

“You deal with the tree, I’ll see to the mourners.”

***

The morning of the funeral Stanley took Isabel out early to choose the tree. This left Sherlock time to prepare himself for the funeral without the child being aware of what was happening. The car that Mycroft had sent drew up promptly at 10 o’clock and Sherlock took pleasure in making it wait for him. He would have preferred to have gone under his own steam, but for once Stanley had sided with Mycroft and Sherlock had been forced to admit that it would be easier for him to go by car.

Once Isabel had chosen a tree, Stanley took her to buy some suitable clothes. It was Mrs Hudson’s suggestion that they do so and then eat lunch out, coming home to change afterwards, so that they did not have too much time waiting around. The idea worked well and Stanley wondered whether the suggestion had been for Isabel’s benefit, or for his own.

The three of them took a taxi to Mycroft’s house, where they found Greg and Molly waiting for them. They walked into the courtyard together. Stanley had been expecting the tree to be propped up in the corner and was surprised to see it had been planted. He turned to Greg and noticed the dirt beneath his finger nails.

“Thank you,” he said.

Molly tapped his arm. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d chosen some words, but in case you haven’t I’ve found a poem I think would be appropriate, if you’d like me to read it.”

Stanley had been struggling for the last few days to think of something suitable to say, so the relief on his face was evident. “That would be wonderful.”

While they had been talking, four of what looked like Sherlock’s homeless network had joined them. Stanley knew Mary had occasionally used some of them to provide information, and he presumed that was why they were there.

One of them spoke to him. “We wanted to come and pay our respects, like. And show our sympathy for the nipper. If that’s okay with you. We’ll stay at the back, not get in your way.”

“Of course. You’re very welcome.”

Molly read the poem and Isabel said ‘good-bye Mummy’ because that was what Stanley had explained to her they were there to do.

Then the four at the back sang the first verses of “The Day Thou Gavest, Lord is Ended.” The words didn’t sound quite right, but the meaning was clear and Stanley was aware of his tears. He sensed, rather than saw, that he wasn’t alone. Isabel was clutching his hand and he squeezed her hand in return.

Stanley was struggling to compose himself when he saw the group nudging each other, until eventually one of their number came forward.

“We couldn’t afford no wreath, so we brought these,” he said.

‘These’ turned out to be a tray of brightly coloured pansies that looked as if they’d been purloined from one of the parks. Stanley smiled, if nothing else they would piss Mycroft off with their vibrancy amidst his subtle colour scheme. Looking at Greg, he saw that the other man felt the same.

“Tell you what,” Greg said, “if I find a trowel, do you think you can plant them?”

 

 


	3. Sherlock Reflects

On reflection, Sherlock was glad that he was going to the funeral by car. It gave him the opportunity to think about Mary Watson, without any extraneous distractions, which wouldhave been inevitable had he travelled by train. Sherlock didn’t generally devote time to thinking back over a person’s life and certainly didn’t subscribe to the “remember the good times” when talking about someone who had recently died. But on this occasion he was. He told himself that it was important in order to put his thoughts in order, for there were still unanswered questions about her death; but there was more to it, for Mary was one of the few people he would genuinely miss.

About two and a half years after her wedding to John, their paths had started to cross more often than would be expected for someone who was the wife of a good friend. Sherlock realised that Mary, for whatever reason, was doing the occasional job for the British secret services. He, himself, was engaged in work for Mycroft, which although it wasn’t his ideal work, the puzzles kept him mentally active. And since this involved another spider, who had constructed a particularly intricate web, Sherlock enjoyed the challenge involved with getting closer to the spider.

He had asked Mary whether John was aware of her activities, but she had avoided the question. He was not surprised a few months later when he was confronted by his furious ex-flatmate demanding to know what exactly she was doing. He was able to answer truthfully that he did not know, although this hardly diminished John’s wrath, as he said ‘but you did know she was involved again.’

Sherlockliked Mary; she was unconventional and frequently flaunted the guidelines. At the same time, he was careful not to put himself in a position where she would expect him to join her in something. She made mistakes, and whilst he was forced to admit that on rare occasions he too would make a mistake, he preferred to sort out his own mess, rather than someone else’s.

Stanley had been surprised the other evening when he learnt that Sherlock was Isabel’s guardian. Sherlock had to admit that he had been equally surprised to be asked. It had been Mary who had asked him. He had once again questioned her as to whether John knew. This time she had confirmed he did. He had wanted to know what John’s thoughts on the matter had been; for he was well aware that few would consider him suitable guardian material. She had told him to speak to her husband himself.

A few days later the opportunity had come up, so he had raised the question of why he was being considered as a guardian with John.

“If you agree, then I know you’ll take it seriously,” John had said.

“You have no guarantee that I won’t forget to feed her or tell her to go to bed.”

“She’s quite capable of letting someone know if she’s hungry and believe me, she can be extremely difficult to ignore. And she’ll just fall asleep where she is.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask Lestrade.” Sherlock had said, still not convinced that he was the best person for the role.

“I thought about it, but although he’d be fine now, in ten years time it might not be so easy. And whatever happens, he will be there if she needs him.”

“Does he know you’re asking me?”

“Yes,” John had answered with a grin.

“What did he say?”

“He’ll be there whenever she needs him.”

Sherlock had laughed and then agreed that he would be Isabel’s legal guardian on the understanding that there were others around who would be there to help as necessary. He hadn’t known Stanley at the time, but now he was forced to admit that he would have found caring for the little girl extremely difficult had it not been for his partner’s assistance.

They had reached the crematorium while Sherlock was lost in thought,and Sherlock asked the driver to wait. He wanted to be sure that he could leave whenever he needed to, rather than be restricted by setting a time for his return. The driver seemed unconcerned and took up the newspaper, which he opened at the crossword.

Sherlock entered the building and joined the others who had come to the service.   The front row, usually reserved for close family, was conspicuously empty. Sherlock had wondered whether Harry would come; he presumed that someone, probably one of Mycroft’s minions, would have informed her. She wasn’t there and he wasn’t all that surprised; she hadn’t been to see her brother in hospital and he wasn’t even sure if she was in the country. For a moment he debated whether to sit in the front, but decided on his customary position at the back, which would give him the best opportunity to observe everyone.

The music started and he was pleased to note that his suggestion had been accepted. Had there been any genuine mourners the choice might have been questioned, but as it was no-one seemed to take any notice. Sherlock considered those present, eight men and three women. All were wearing dark suits, not unusual for a funeral, but these looked like they were worn every day, rather than pulled from the back of the wardrobe for the occasion.

The minister began the service and while he spoke Sherlock observed those in front of him. At least two were sending emails on their phones, while two others continued their conversation as if nothing else was happening. There was a brief pause when the minister looked to see if anyone wished to make the eulogy, but no-one offered. There was some more music and then the service drew to a close.

Sherlock watched as the others left the building. Some had clearly been sent to represent departments, others were there to monitor who else turned up, and one of the women had obviously used the occasion to arrange a meeting that would otherwise have proved difficult to justify. One of the two men who had talked throughout the service came over to him. Sherlock didn’t recognise him, although he did recognise his companion, a short man named Morris, who he had met on a couple of occasions over the last few months, in the course of his work. Sherlock was surprised to see him present.

“Ah, Mr Holmes,” the first man said, “I hadn’t expected to see you here.”

“I’m a good friend of John, Mary’s husband. It was the least I could do in the situation.” A platitude, and sufficiently true for it to hopefully be accepted. It was.

With a nod the man said, “Please give him our condolences.”

Sherlock saw him join the other and they walked away together. He decided to use the ploy of grieving family friend to spend a few minutes apart, while watching to see if anything else happened. Once he was satisfied he had gained all he could from seeing who spoke to whom, he walked back to the car. Rather than head straight home he instructed the driver to take a couple of diversions. He had anticipated an objection, but the driver merely nodded and started the engine.

The first diversion took them down the street that Mary and John had been living on. Sherlock hadn’t expected to gain anything from driving down there, any clues would be long gone, but it did give him a sense of where the explosion had happened. He went through the probable sequence of events in his mind. How had whoever had arranged the additional car known when to arrive? Had it been anyone other than Greg who had been asked to pick the Watsons up, Sherlock would have been suspicious. But Greg would never have done something like that. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that Mary herself had arranged for the second car, presumably to meet someone. Once more she had been playing a dangerous game, but this time it had failed to pay off.

The second diversion was to the hospital. Sherlock entered and was admitted to the room John was in. There had been no change in his condition, so Sherlock remained long enough to document the state of John’s injuries, and hewas about to leave when a nurse came in.

“We’re encouraging everyone who visits our coma patients to read to them. If you’d like to take five minutes to do so it could make a difference. We have some suitable poetry books if you would like to borrow one.”

“Thank you. I have something in my pocket which will do far better.”

Sherlock sat down and took the order of service for Mary’s funeral out of his pocket. He began to read it to John, but when it came to the section which said ‘Words for Mary’ he said what, in other circumstances, would have been called her eulogy. When he finished he self-consciously wiped away a tear, before continuing with the rest of the order of service.

He stopped and stood up. “And now I have to go home and find who did this to you and her.”

He found the car and told the driver to take him home. He was concerned that he had seen Morris at the funeral. It wouldn’t surprise him if Morris had been involved in Mary’s death. He looked down at his own damaged hand. Morris had certainly been involved in the incident that had nearly cost Sherlock his life, and left him permanently injured.

Sherlock had been following a trail, about eight weeks earlier, which had come from two names Mycroft had mentioned to him as possibilities. Sherlock had been aware that whilst Mycroft had his suspicions regarding the pair, he could not have had any concrete proof, for otherwise he would have used his own people. The trail had led him to a group that were meeting in what was an apparently abandoned house in the East End. He had met a couple of members of the group and persuaded them that he shared similar interests. He also implied that he had good computer skills and could be an asset to the group, whose members seemed to be present at many of the political demonstrations that occurred in the capital, as well as further afield. They were suspected of inciting violence at the demonstrations, but when trouble did break out they were no longer present.

The group had seemed convinced and had given him an address, telling him to come at 3 o’clock the next day. He had meticulously checked everything he could before going. The group were known by Morris’ unit; the East End address was one of several that the group had connections with and appeared to be the one to which new recruits were taken before they were fully trusted by the group. Morris’ men had not moved in to shut it down because it gave them information as to who was being recruited. In addition the house was routinely monitored by the security forces. So Sherlock felt confident of making an approach there.

He had entered the house and been instantly aware of how quiet it was. It had not been the silence of people observing someone without wishing to give away their presence; there were always small noises, shuffling, breathing, moving a curtain, sounds that generally blended into the background but nevertheless were still there. This had been the silence of an empty house. Curious he had started to walk towards the back of the house, when he had caught sight of an incendiary device. There was a small side door and he had slipped out of that. The door had led into a narrow passageway which once would have gone through to the front of the house, but at some point several years ago it had been bricked up, leaving the only exit towards the back.

He had heard the explosion, and had tried to make his way away from the house, but had been hindered by the dustbins, broken bicycles and other rubbish that was being stored in the passageway. He had been hit by burning debris which had caught his hand and something hard and metallic had crashed into his ankle. He had stumbled and then struggled back to his feet. Almost certain that his ankle had been damaged, he hadn’t been able to risk stopping. He had limped to the back and scrambled over the fence that had been knocked down by the explosion. The noise had brought a number of the neighbours out to see what had happened and he had slipped in amongst them before making his escape down the next street.

He had hobbled as far as a nearby bus stop and caught the first bus that came along. Once clear of the area he had sent Stanley a text requesting he meet him from the bus. Stanley had taken him to hospital, where they had done what they could for him, but the damage caused by walking on the injured ankle was significant, and his fingers, although they should regain their mobility, would be permanently scarred.

There was no question in Sherlock’s mind that Morris had been involved in some way. He had known that the group were using the house and his men had had the place under surveillance. They, and by inference, Morris himself, would have been aware that the incendiary device was being planted; it was far too sophisticated for one of the group to have set it up. The destruction of the house had served no particular purpose, and had they wished to remove the leaders of the group there were other properties where they were more likely to be found; this was purely of use to the foot soldiers. And most damning of all, clearly a warning had been given to stay clear of the house. Whoever had planted the device had expected him to be going there.

And now Sherlock had seen Morris at Mary’s funeral it gave him further cause to believe in his duplicity. He would have to start digging deeper. He spent the rest of the journey home constructing mental flow charts to speed his research.

***

The following morning, Isabel wanted to show Sherlock the tree they had bought in her mother’s memory. Accordingly, the three of them set off for Mycroft’s house. When they arrived, they went down the steps to the basement and then into a covered passageway. They stopped at the wooden gate and Stanley took out a key and let them through. The first thing Sherlock saw was the semi-circle of pansies that were in front of the tree.

“Mycroft will hate those,” Sherlock said.

“He does. I had a text to that effect,” Stanley replied.

Isabel told Sherlock how she and Uncle Stanley had chosen the tree and how Uncle Greg had planted it.

“And then Auntie Molly read a sad poem and I cried and so did everyone else.”

Sherlock looked at Stanley who shrugged, not wishing to admit to his own emotions.

“And then some nice men and a lady sang and planted some pretty flowers. So I was happy and sad.”

“And so you should be,” said Stanley, bending down to kiss the little girl on the top of her head.

When Isabel was ready they left the garden, Stanley locking the gate again as they went.

“Mycroft’s given me two keys: one for us to use and one for Isabel when she’s old enough to come by herself.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I’d planned for us to get some lunch and then go to Holland Park,” Stanley added. “They have a number of children’s activities there, which I think Isabel would enjoy.”

They found a café for lunch and after eating Sherlock said “I think I’ll go back to the flat. My ankle is starting to hurt, so it would probably be better if I did.”

“Okay, I understand. Make sure you do rest it and don’t spend the afternoon standing in the kitchen doing experiments.”

“I promise I shall sit with my foot properly supported.”

Sherlock felt slightly disappointed that Stanley hadn’t challenged his assertion that he should rest his ankle. Normally it was Stanley who was insisting he didn’t overdo things, while Sherlock maintained that he was quite capable of continuing. Stanley should have picked up on the inconsistency. He would have done, had he not been so occupied with entertaining Isabel. Sherlock felt a twinge of jealousy. Then he reminded himself that caring for Isabel had to be the priority for one of them, and if he wanted the time to look into Morris’ activities, then Stanley needed to be with Isabel.

Once back in 221B, Sherlock began the painstaking task of checking and cross-referencing various strands of information. Slowly the pattern became clear, so that by the time Isabel and Stanley returned, both slightly muddy, there was only one item that remained obscure. And that, if he made his move soon enough, should be easy to obtain. He would have to find a reason to go out at lunchtime the next day. 


	4. Sunday

Over tea (sausages and smiley face potatoes) Isabel told Sherlock all about their afternoon’s activities: looking at earthworms, identifying different leaves, searching the edges of the pond, how a boy about her age hadn’t wanted to get dirty, but she and Uncle Stanley hadn’t been bothered by the mud at all. It had been a wonderful afternoon.

Sherlock looked at Stanley, who was smiling and seemed happy for the first time since he’d received the call from Greg seven days before. Sherlock thought that, in fact, Stanley looked happier than he had been in a long time. He knew Stanley was intending to return to the Met as soon as his secondment had finished, and felt that the time couldn’t come soon enough.

When it was time for Isabel’s bedtime story, Sherlock said he would read. She chose one of the books Stanley had bought for her that afternoon. Sherlock privately hoped that the rate of children’s book purchases would slow down, because at the rate they were going, Isabel would soon need somewhere else to sleep as her current bedroom would have turned into a library.

When he came back down, Stanley had poured them both a drink.

“Isabel really enjoyed herself this afternoon,” Stanley said.

“I did get that impression,” Sherlock smiled.

“They run a fortnightly club on a Saturday morning which I’ve said she can go to. I hope that’s okay.”

“Why ever not? I’m always being told about the benefits of fresh air, I’m sure that applies to children too. And besides which it’s teaching her some very useful tools about observation.”

“You should have come with us. I realised you were using your ankle as an excuse, because you thought it would be boring, which is why I didn’t say anything, but I think you would have been surprised if you had come.”

Sherlock felt a twinge of what, in a lesser man, would have been termed guilt. So Stanley had noticed, but hadn’t called him out on it. And he’d done it to keep both Isabel and Sherlock happy.

They spent the evening on the settee, reading their books; Sherlock annotating all the errors in a book on Second World War ciphers and Stanley with a book on the crusades.

After a while Sherlock nudged Stanley and said, “You might as well go to bed.”

“Why? This is really interesting.”

“Of course. You’ve read the same page at least five times and you’ve been snoring for the past ten minutes.”

Stanley stretched and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.“Will you be coming soon?”

“Yes, I’ll just finish my chapter.”

Stanley was asleep by the time Sherlock came to bed, but as he lay down Stanley rolled over towards him. Cautiously he put his arm around the other man, who cuddled up to him. Sherlock in his turn relaxed and slept better than he had all week.

***

Sunday morning was traditionally a day when, if both Stanley and Sherlock were home, they had a lie in, which more often than not resulted in lazy love making. This morning, however, Stanley was woken by the bedroom door opening, followed by the sound of small bare feet crossing the floor. He opened his eyes to find himself staring at a penguin, which was apparently staring back at him. He blinked and realised the penguin was on the front of a pair of pyjamas that were being worn by a small girl.

“Are you both ill?” Isabel said. “Because there’s no-one in the kitchen and it must be breakfast time by now.”

Stanley groaned, as Sherlock pulled the pillow over his own head.

“I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Shall I wait?”

“No, no, you don’t need to do that. Why don’t you go and find which cereal you would like while I get up.”

“Okay.”

Isabel departed, shutting the door behind her. Stanley got out of bed and tied his dressing gown firmly round his waist.

“I think we’d better invest in some pyjamas,” he said.

“Hmm,” said the voice from under the pillow.

***

Both men spent the morning working, Stanley painstakingly cross-referencing emails, text messages, and physical movements, trying to see a pattern within it all; Sherlock making final arrangements to obtain the last piece of information that he needed. Isabel spent some time colouring, doing puzzles and decorating a picture with stickers; once the stickers had all been used up Stanley put on a DVD for her to watch.

About midday Sherlock said, “Bother, there was an article I wanted in _The Observer_. I’m just going to pop out and by a copy.”

“Okay,” Stanley looked up sufficiently to check that Isabel was happy and then returned to his laptop. Had he thought about what Sherlock was saying he would have been instantly suspicious, but the thoughts he was currently having were too absorbing for him to be aware of what was going on.

All his cross-referencing was finally bearing fruit. For some time his department had been aware that messages came from two separate points, which were then brought together and transmitted on, but whenever they thought they had cracked what was happening and made the perfect match and tried to exploit their knowledge something had gone wrong. It was as if there was a simple tune from one place and the key signature from another; put the two together and the music should work. But it didn’t. Stanley was now convinced that this was because there was a third element, one accidental flat or sharp, and if you weren’t aware of where this had to go then the piece of music would fail; which in their case could have catastrophic results. This appeared to be what had happened with Mary Watson; she had transmitted the ‘tune’ but without being aware of the extra element, and this had been what caused her death.

The messages themselves would, when decoded, provide meeting places and times, which the recipient would then pass on as a combined message, according to a pre-arranged format, to confirm their attendance at the meeting. It seemed so simple, but without the final element then anyone responding would be walking into a trap. Stanley had therefore forbidden anyone from his department from acting on the information until they knew what else was needed.

The department had intercepted some recent messages and Stanley was trying to work out the significance of them. The messages used certain code words and he remembered that he had seen a list of such words that Sherlock had compiled. He walked over to the table Sherlock used to see if he’d left them there and saw to his consternation the messages he was working on in the pile. On top of which was the message that he presumed Sherlock had sent. He scanned it quickly and realised to his horror that although it perfectly captured the first two elements, the third was missing.

Forcing himself to concentrate, he carefully worked his way through the message again. He realised with dawning clarity that his theory about the messages was correct. When the errors in the reply messages had first been discovered, everyone had assumed they were mistakes; looking at Sherlock’s ‘perfect’ reply Stanley could see that the message that would be received would let the recipient know that the original message had been intercepted. And if that was the case then Sherlock, being unaware of this, was heading directly into danger.

He grabbed his phone and barked out some orders. Then he turned to Isabel.

“I’m afraid I shall have to go out for a little while,” he said.

When Isabel looked at him he saw total resignation in her eyes. He wondered how often it had happened in the past that she had been left behind because her mother or father had had to go out suddenly. He couldn’t let it happen to her again.

“What I mean is that I have to go out, so you’ll need to come with me,” he said. “Put your shoes on quickly.”

He found her backpack and pushed her puzzle book, pencils and her new _All About Trees_ book in it. He wasn’t going anywhere dangerous, just somewhere that he could oversee operations, therefore she would be quite safe.

As they exited the front door of the house, Stanley received a text giving him the necessary details. He hailed a cab and gave the driver the destination. They were heading for the bank of the Thames, so Stanley called the river patrol headquarters and gave them his orders. Members of his team had already arrived when the taxi pulled up on the Embankment. They made the RNLI station their headquarters to await developments.

Stanley was furious with himself. He knew that if he’d been paying better attention to what Sherlock was doing he would have realised that he was onto something and maybe intervened. Instead of which Sherlock had rushed off again, as he had six weeks ago, thinking he knew everything, and missing the one final, vital detail. He cursed himself for being so immersed in what he was doing that he failed to spot what else was going on.

He looked at Isabel, who was showing her tree book to one of his staff members. For her sake, it was important that nothing happened to Sherlock; the little girl had gone through enough in the last week. He refused to admit to himself how he would feel if they didn’t find Sherlock in time. All the ‘what ifs’ that had gone through his mind after the earlier explosion threatened to come flooding back, but he damped them down; he needed to remain strictly professional.

Stanley listened in as his men reported back that they had reached Sherlock’s initial destination. Stanley was not surprised that there was no sign of him there; the meeting point had been in the middle of a busy street, his contact would have led him somewhere more secluded. Once again Stanley felt a degree of annoyance that Sherlock refused to share information until he was certain of all the facts. Had he done so on this occasion it would have given them a better idea where to search, and might even have prevented the episode entirely.

The afternoon dragged on. Stanley tried not to jump every time a phone rang and to resist constantly looking to see what the time was. Then they received the news that the team on the ground had found a partially collapsed tunnel entrance and that they had drafted in help to shift the debris. The assumption was that they were now close to their final destination.

When the call came through to say that Sherlock had been found, unconscious but alive, Stanley felt his heart race. One of his officers drove him and Isabel to the hospital and by the time they had arrived, Sherlock had regained consciousness. Stanley was told that he could see Sherlock for a few minutes before they examined him further. Stanley set off down the corridor, holding Isabel’s hand, as she once again trotted beside him to keep up.

They found Sherlock in a side ward, with a police officer sitting outside. Stanley showed his warrant card and he and Isabel went in. Sherlock looked pale and there was a bandage round his head, but otherwise he appeared okay.

“They’re insisting I stay overnight,” Sherlock said as they entered. “I said I would be alright to leave, but they were adamant.”

Stanley glared at him. “All things considered, that might not be such a bad idea.”

He was about to say more, but thought better of it when he realised Isabel was crying. He bent down to pick the little girl up.

“Ssh, ssh, sweetheart,” he said. “Uncle Sherlock is going to be alright. The doctors and nurses will look after him tonight and then tomorrow he will be able to come back home. Where it will be up to us to look after him.”

Sherlock reached out to Isabel and patted her arm clumsily.

“I’m sorry for worrying you, Isabel,” he said, “and you, too, Stanley.”

He might have said more, but at that point a doctor came in, so Stanley and Isabel left, promising to return that evening during visiting hours.

Once they were outside the hospital Stanley switched his mobile back on. There was a missed call, plus a text from Greg. The text said simply “Call me.”

Stanley rang him.

“Stanley, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, Sherlock’s been concussed and being kept in hospital overnight, but he’ll be okay.”

“Good, because the hospital have just phoned me. John has taken a turn for the worse, they’ve said I need to come now.”

“Shit. We’re outside St Thomas’ at the moment. Can you pick us up on your way?”

“Of course. I’ll be ten minutes at most.”

The journey to the hospital where John was had to be one of the worst Stanley had ever made. He explained as best he could to Isabel that Daddy was very unwell and that they had to go and say goodbye to him, too. She started to cry and he held her close, ignoring the rule about seat belts in order to comfort her as best he could.

On arrival at the hospital they were taken through to the room that John was in. Stanley took Isabel in and watched as she kissed her father goodbye. Having done so, she ran back to Stanley, who picked her up and carried her out of the room, her head buried into his shoulder.

As they came out, Greg went into the room. One of the nurses showed them to the family room, where Isabel sat on Stanley’s lap and clung tightly to him, while he cuddled her and reassured her over and over again that there were still people who loved her and would take care of her.

Twenty minutes later Greg joined them. “It’s over.”

He sat down and the tears coursed down his cheeks. Isabel climbed off Stanley’s lap, walked over to Greg and then climbed onto him.

She put her arms round his neck, kissed him and said, “Don’t worry Uncle Greg, Uncle Stanley and I will look after you now.”

Stanley gave up the unequal struggle with his own tears.

 


	5. Fallout

After Stanley had received the news about John from Greg, he had debated about leaving Isabel with Greg once he arrived to pick them up, and going back into the hospital to tell Sherlock. This would have taken time, and from the urgency of Greg’s message, he wasn’t sure whether there would be enough. He decided that his priority had to be Isabel and doing all he could to get her to see her father before it was too late. He knew that Sherlock would work out that something serious had happened, which was why Stanley hadn’t come to visit that evening, and that he could deal with any fallout later.

Whilst they were still at the hospital dealing with the paperwork following John’s death he had received a text saying “SH has been informed, MH”. He hoped that Mycroft hadn’t been as terse when telling Sherlock and that the briefness of the text was because Mycroft had assumed, correctly, that Stanley already had sufficient to deal with.

Stanley had gone to collect Sherlock from hospital as originally arranged. He came into the room to find Sherlock dressed and ready to leave. Stanley watched as Sherlock stood up. His movements were much slower than he would have expected; Sherlock was always darting around, now he was moving like an old man. Had it been as a result of the head wound Stanley would have expected the frustrated expression he had been seeing quite frequently since Sherlock’s hand and ankle had been damaged, but this wasn’t the case. It was as if someone had hooked him to a machine similar to the one John had been on, only this time the tubes had drained the life force from him.

As Stanley was trying to find something to say Sherlock asked, “Did you get there on time?”

“Yes, we did. And I’m sorry I couldn’t come in yesterday evening.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “How is she?”

“Confused, clingy. I kept her off school today.”

“Where is she now?”

“At the flat. Mrs Hudson came up to be with her while I collected you. They’re going to make cakes to help you get better.”

Sherlock tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it.

“I’m not sure what I can say to her.”

“She doesn’t need you to say anything. All she’s concerned about is that you come home. And if you want to be on your own you can go to bed and we can tell her you need your rest.”

Sherlock nodded. Stanley put his arms round Sherlock, unsure of how best to comfort his partner, when he himself felt battered. Sherlock in turn hugged Stanley and the two of them stood mutely reassuring the other, before Stanley bent down and picked up Sherlock’s bag.

The three of them spent the afternoon huddled up together on the settee, sometimes dozing, sometimes watching the television. Molly came over in the late afternoon to once again make tea, and although Sherlock continued to move slowly it seemed to Stanley that it was more a reflective slowness rather than a defeated one.

***

The next day Stanley went into work to meet with his boss to discuss events. Normally, Stanley would have been restrained, keeping his personal thoughts to himself, but on this occasion he told Hendersonexactly what he thought about the way information was handled within the department. He was furious that, because he had been forbidden from sharing his beliefs that there was a problem with the messages that had been coming through, two people had died and it was only by his own swift intervention that it hadn’t been three deaths.

Henderson stood up. “I realise that you have been working under considerable strain these past few days. I am therefore ordering you to take immediate compassionate leave. We will meet again next Monday to discuss this further.”

Stanley stormed out of the office and then out of the building. He still felt extremely angry, but at the same time relieved to be away for a week.

When he got back to 221B he found Mycroft standing in the middle of the living room, addressing Sherlock who was lying on the settee.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snarled. “You know Sherlock’s supposed to be resting.”

“I am not here on business matters. I felt, in the circumstances, there were certain arrangements that needed to be made regarding Isabel Watson.”

Stanley sank into a chair. If Isabel was taken away he thought the rest of his world would crumble about him.

“Sherlock agrees with me,” Mycroft continued, ignoring the anguish on Stanley’s face, “that it would be best if you were made joint guardian with him. I presume you have no objection to this.”

Stanley stuttered out, “Er, no, no objection.”

“And that in addition I shall draw up a document stating that should both of you be absent for any reason Greg Lestrade may legally sign papers on your behalf.”

Stanley looked slightly confused.

“What that means,” Sherlock explained,“is that if Greg was looking after Isabel for a couple of days then he could sign to say she could go on a school trip, things like that. Apparently that’s the legal way to do it, rather than just forging a signature.”

Mycroft’s sniff at the final comment was quite audible.

“Are you happy with this?” Stanley asked Sherlock.

“Immensely. When I agreed to be Isabel’s guardian I did so because I was confident there would be others around whose help I could rely on. You will be sharing with me on all the day to day practical matters.”

Mycroft muttered something about not being sure how equal the sharing was.

Sherlock ignored him and continued, “And therefore I think it’s right that you should share in the guardianship.”

“Thank you,” Stanley smiled.

“Right, well if that’s all settled, I shall leave you two,” Mycroft said. “I will arrange to have the papers drawn up immediately.”

***

The following morning Stanley and Sherlock drove up to the Watsons’ old house. After Mycroft had left, Stanley had explained to Sherlock why he had come home and then added that he had thought that, since he now had the time, he would see about collecting Isabel’s belongings; she needed more clothes and was missing her toys.

Stanley hadn’t been convinced when Sherlock had said that he would come with him. Although Sherlock had behaved as he normally did when his brother was present, Stanley was well aware that this came from long practice of concealing all emotion from Mycroft. He was concerned that what Sherlock was currently showing was the bandage over a nasty wound.

Sherlock, however, had been adamant that he wanted to come, so, having arranged that Greg would pick Isabel up after school and accepted his offer of his spare room as storage for Isabel’s belongings if needed, they had driven to the house together. Once there, Sherlock sat heavily on Isabel’s bed, watching as Stanley started to pack up the little girl’s items.

“I took him to a crime scene the night we met,” he said suddenly.

“John?” Stanley asked tentatively. Sherlock hadn’t spoken a word of his friend since being released from the hospital, and it had started to concern Stanley.

“And we chased after a taxi and he discovered he didn’t need his cane after all. Of course Mycroft tried to pay him to inform on me. Then he started writing his blog ...”

Sherlock tailed off and Stanley glanced up uneasily, worried that Sherlock was trying to delete the memories. From Sherlock’s expression Stanley could see that there wasn’t a problem, Sherlock was continuing to relive them, but had merely stopped talking. Stanley continued packing and waited for Sherlock to continue.

“Then there was the occasion when we went to Baskerville. At one point he got to pull rank and we were inside the establishment before anyone realised what was happening.”

Stanley had thought he might have been jealous of their relationship, but it was clear that there had been nothing but a deep friendship. Sherlock helped Stanley pack the boxes and bags into the car and as they did so, Stanley had the sense that Sherlock was using it to close up the wound that had now been cleansed.

***

The following Monday Stanley met Henderson again.

“Sit down, Hopkins,” he said. “I have been reviewing your work and it has been excellent. I can see, however, that you have been under a great deal of stress and I am therefore signing you off for three weeks on sick leave.”

“Sir, I’ve had a week off. I had planned to ask for a few more days leave for John Watson’s funeral, but after that I shall be ready to work again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Next week is half term, so you will need that off anyway. One more week on sick leave, then you have three weeks’ annual leave due, and that brings you to the end of your secondment to this department. All that is necessary for you to do now is leave a few notes for your successor, who I am confident will be able to pick up the reins easily, since your work has been meticulous, and for you to take any personal items from your office.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stanley went to his office and compiled a list of things he felt his successor would need. He had no idea what he would do with six weeks off work. He had had vague thoughts of decorating Isabel’s bedroom, but that would only take a few days. He could sort out Isabel’s belongings, the majority of which they had left at Greg’s after their trip the previous week. It still left a lot of time for him to spend on needless reflection.

He had just finished and was about to leave his office for the final time, when his boss came in.

“One slight change of plan: I’ve spoken to the Met, who have agreed that if you would prefer to keep your annual leave until the school summer holidays then they would be happy for you to start back with them the second week in June. I assume that this would be acceptable to you.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

They shook hands and Stanley left the building with a spring in his step. He could take Isabel shopping for paint and new curtains during half term, and then in his last week of sick leave he could decorate her bedroom.

***

The following day, Stanley and Sherlock returned to the Watsons’house. On their way they had finalised the funeral arrangements and booked a firm to clear the house. All that remained was for them to collect any personal belongings they wished to retain. It had been clear when they had been there the previous week that the security forces had already collected anything that could possibly be of use to them, or could provide anything that could compromise anyone. What was left was mostly functional, and the fact that the family had moved regularly was evident from how few possessions they seemed to have had.

Sherlock ran his fingers along John’s books.

Stanley gave him a box. “Pack them up and we’ll take them with us. You can sort out the ones you want later. There’s still space in Greg’s spare room, so we can drop them off when we pick Isabel up.”

Stanley went up to the master bedroom. It seemed strange looking through someone else’s dressing table. He done such things as a policeman, but here it felt wrong. Unable to decide what to take, but knowing that Sherlock might like something to remember John by, and being aware that Greg, too, would appreciate something, he packed everything into a small bag he found. There would be time, later, to sort through. Similarly, he packed Mary’s jewellery thinking that Isabel might like some of it when she was older.

Mycroft had sent him a text, offering to provide storage for items that Isabel might value at a later date, so Stanley packed all the photographs he could find, as well as a half-filled in baby book. On impulse he added one of John’s favourite jumpers, together with the latest Christmas jumper. He came back downstairs to find Sherlock standing in the kitchen.

“Have you got everything you want?” Stanley asked.

“Almost. Mrs Hudson always liked this dinner service. I was wondering whether to take it for her, or whether Isabel would find it too upsetting,” Sherlock replied.

“We can pack it up and give it to Mrs Hudson and let her decide what she does with it. She could keep it boxed up for a while before she uses it.”

They wrapped and packed the crockery and then drove back to London.

When they reached Greg’s flat he greeted them by saying, “Mind where you walk, Isabel found her Lego.”

Greg helped them bring the new boxes into his flat. He explained that he and Isabel had been going through her toys and she’d chosen the ones she wanted to take back to Baker Street with her. In addition, they’d agreed that she would leave some things in Uncle Greg’s flat so she would have something to play with when she went to him.

“Everything else I can box up again and if she doesn’t ask for them in the next six months we can find a new home for them,” Greg added.

They thanked Greg for looking after Isabel, packed her and a large box of toys into the car, and drove back to Baker Street.

***

John’s funeral was a quiet event. Isabel sat between Stanley and Sherlock in the front row. Harry had flown over and they invited her to join them, but she preferred to sit in the row behind. Mrs Hudson, who had come with Greg and Molly, came to sit next to her. Mike Stamford, and a couple of John’s colleagues from the surgery that had been his latest employer, were present too.

This time, when it came to the eulogy, both Sherlock and Greg spoke. Whilst Sherlock spoke quietly, addressing most of his remarks to Isabel, Greg looked steadfastly at the sheet of paper that he had painfully written his words on, not trusting himself to look up.

When Mrs Hudson came to describe the event to her Mrs Turner later, she summed it up as dignified, recalling the little girl leading the rest of the mourners out of the building, holding hands firmly with both Stanley and Sherlock.

***

The evening after the funeral Stanley said to Sherlock, “Isabel was asking whether she could plant another tree to remember her Daddy.”

“I don’t think Mycroft had planned on having the whole of his garden taken over.”

“He hasn’t! I sent him a text to which he replied by saying that there were a lot of more suitable bushes that could be planted closer to the original tree. He hasn’t specifically said she can’t though, so it might be best to wait.”

The following morning Isabel looked up from her book of trees and said “This is the tree I want for Daddy.”

Stanley went over to see that she was pointing at a beech tree. Sherlock, seeing Stanley’s expression, went to look for himself.

“Ah,” Sherlock said. “Now that’s a very big tree. See, it says that it grows to be about forty metres high. That’s more than thirty times your height. A tree like that wouldn’t fit in the garden.”

“Oh,” Isabel looked very disappointed. “It’s such a lovely green.”

“But maybe you could get a bush the same green. I think that we should all,” Sherlock looked at Stanley as he emphasised the _all_ , “go and look for some beech leaves in the park this afternoon and you could take them with you when you go to choose your bush.”

***

That evening Sherlock could hear giggles coming from Isabel’s bedroom. Stanley was up there, supposedly reading her bedtime story. Sherlock went up to investigate.

“Uncle Stanley should be reading something to you to help you go to sleep, not keep you awake.” Sherlock pretended to look stern, but failed miserably.

“One more story, please,” Isabel giggled again.

The story was about a curious kitten, and as he read, Stanley demonstrated firstly by flattening the ears on his head, and then wiggling his bum about as he showed the kitten wriggling his way under a fence. Sherlock thought Stanley looked endearing.

When Stanley finished he said “No more. You can have another one tomorrow if you go to sleep now.”

They both kissed Isabel good night and went back downstairs.

***

Half term passed quickly. A bush of the correct green colour was chosen; paint, curtains and bedding were purchased. Isabel was asleep cuddling a large fluffy penguin. (Stanley had tried to smuggle the penguin in without Sherlock noticing, an entirely pointless venture, since Sherlock had no objection to the occasional purchase of new toys.) It was the end of the week and they were sitting side by side on the settee watching the news when an announcement was made of the sudden death of a high ranking civil servant.

Stanley turned to Sherlock. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

“Possibly. I was able to prove that his links with a number of South American countries were of an extremely dubious nature and that the rulers of said countries were receiving information that they should not have had and were unlikely to have received from elsewhere.”

“So it’s over?”

“It will never be over. The stakes are too high for that. But I do know that this was the man who ordered the elimination of Mary Watson and caused the death of my best friend.”

“Then you should be pleased with yourself. You’ve done all that you could for them.”

Stanley poured them both a drink. “I feel like I should be proposing a toast,” he said. “But I’m not sure what to.”

“To Isabel!”

“Isabel!”


End file.
